Sydney had freckles sprinkled over a boyish face. He stood 6’5’’ and was a bit on the nerdy side. I knew him in junior high. Like most boys that age, we were horny 24/7, the hot lights of puberty having been recently switched on. But with Syd, it was closer to an addiction. He already had an enviable collection of girlie magazines. The hardcore ones where the women looked more like street hookers than the girl next door. If he had any hobbies outside his interest in sex, I don’t know what they might have been. He was built like a quarterback but had no athletic ability that I could see. He looked like a clumsy white kid way out of his element on the basketball court.
At the time, I was in possession of what I thought was genuine Spanish fly. It had been given to me by someone I can no longer recall, but it was undoubtedly another puberty-stricken boy I had known at the time. I had the pill with me for some time in my collection of important keepsakes, never having had the nerve to try it on anyone.
Spanish fly was legendary in my pubescent years. Everyone knew the old story of the couple who went to the drive-in where the boy had slipped the pill to his date in a drink, and while he went to buy some popcorn the pill had taken effect. Before he returned, the girl had killed herself in a horny frenzy, impaling herself in a bloody heap on the gearshift jutting from the floor of the car. It was an urban legend that every high school kid in my era had heard at one time or another. The acquisition of the potent drug was one of the holy grails of adolescent pursuit.
I was never completely convinced that what was given to me was the real deal. And yet I was never completely convinced that it wasn’t. I had decided to keep the broken and shattered pill as a kind of trophy much like a rich man keeps stolen works of art in a safe room for his viewing pleasure. It gave me a perverse kind of satisfaction in knowing that I had the very pill that every horny boy in school would love to have.
One day while I was over at Syd’s house hanging out in his backyard where he kept his girlie magazines under some bricks of an old retainer wall, I casually mentioned that I had the much-sought-after Spanish fly, wishing to impress my host who, along with me, was ogling the huge breasts of strange women on the glossy pages of forbidden magazines. I wanted to let him know that I too had forbidden contraband. I wanted to elevate my status in the closed-circuit world of the lewd teenager.
No sooner had the information sunk in than Syd cranked his gaze toward me and drooled. “You have Spanish fly?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be interested in selling it?”
“Maybe.”
“How much?”
It had never occurred to me to sell it. But now that the offer was made, I said, “Five bucks.”
“Do you have it on you?”
“It’s at home.”
“Bring it to school tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have the money.”
The exchange was made the next day in the boy’s restroom. He gave me a wrinkled 5 dollar bill and I handed him a small aspirin tin housing the pieces of the forbidden pill.
“How much should I use?” he wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never used any of it.”
“How do you know it’s any good?”
“I don’t.”
He shoved the aspirin tin into his pocket and a strange look appeared on his face. I supposed he was thinking about who he could use it on. I asked him if he had anyone in mind.
“I’m going to have to think about it,” he said, and then he slunk out the door.
A week or so went by and I hadn’t seen him around. Though we knew each other, we didn’t hang out. After a few days I just sort of forgot about him and his quest to find a suitable female.
When I finally saw him again, I asked if he had used the pill on anyone. Looking about to make sure no one was within hearing distance, he said, “I tried it but it didn’t work.”
“Who was it?”
“My sister.”
I knew his sister. She was a year older than he was and looked like a female guard in a woman’s prison. She had short, dry brown hair and was big-boned. Not fat, just solid, like a woman wrestler. And she wore glasses. She wasn’t exactly ugly, but she wasn’t pretty either. I didn’t bother to ask why he had chosen her because it was obvious to me. She had been convenient.
He said he gave her the mashed-up pill in a glass of lemonade and waited for it to take effect. He had made sure his parents would be gone for the day and that his sister would be home. After watching her drink the lemonade, he hung around waiting for her to come running into the room anxious to tear his clothes off. But nothing of the sort happened. She just went about her business and pretty much ignored him.
After a few hours, he gave up on it and chalked it up as a dud.
I was a little relieved that it had tuned out this way, but couldn’t help thinking about what might have happened if the pill had worked as we had imagined it, with his sister ripping off her clothes and begging him to jump her bones.
After we left high school I lost touch with Syd. It was maybe half a dozen years later that I ran into him on Broadway in downtown L.A. I had gone there to do some shopping. When I say that I ran into him I mean to say that I saw him in the crowd but didn’t talk to him or acknowledge him in any other way. Though I saw him, I wasn’t sure if he saw me.
He was still taller than the average pedestrian and he stood out in the crowd. Especially the way he was dressed. This was when Midnight Cowboy was showing on movie screens all over the country. Syd was almost the spitting image of Jon Voight in his western hat and buckskin jacket, tassels and all. I say almost because other than the clothes, he did not look anything like Voight. He did however look very much at home in his western garb. There was a hint of a self-satisfied smile on his boyish face. He never looked directly at me. He just stood towering over the sea of people, his cowboy hat gliding over them like a low-flying bird as I watched him walk away and I could almost hear these words following him down the crowded street—
Everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
Only the echoes of my mind…
For the time being, I thought, he had found his calling.
At the time, I was in possession of what I thought was genuine Spanish fly. It had been given to me by someone I can no longer recall, but it was undoubtedly another puberty-stricken boy I had known at the time. I had the pill with me for some time in my collection of important keepsakes, never having had the nerve to try it on anyone.
Spanish fly was legendary in my pubescent years. Everyone knew the old story of the couple who went to the drive-in where the boy had slipped the pill to his date in a drink, and while he went to buy some popcorn the pill had taken effect. Before he returned, the girl had killed herself in a horny frenzy, impaling herself in a bloody heap on the gearshift jutting from the floor of the car. It was an urban legend that every high school kid in my era had heard at one time or another. The acquisition of the potent drug was one of the holy grails of adolescent pursuit.
I was never completely convinced that what was given to me was the real deal. And yet I was never completely convinced that it wasn’t. I had decided to keep the broken and shattered pill as a kind of trophy much like a rich man keeps stolen works of art in a safe room for his viewing pleasure. It gave me a perverse kind of satisfaction in knowing that I had the very pill that every horny boy in school would love to have.
One day while I was over at Syd’s house hanging out in his backyard where he kept his girlie magazines under some bricks of an old retainer wall, I casually mentioned that I had the much-sought-after Spanish fly, wishing to impress my host who, along with me, was ogling the huge breasts of strange women on the glossy pages of forbidden magazines. I wanted to let him know that I too had forbidden contraband. I wanted to elevate my status in the closed-circuit world of the lewd teenager.
No sooner had the information sunk in than Syd cranked his gaze toward me and drooled. “You have Spanish fly?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be interested in selling it?”
“Maybe.”
“How much?”
It had never occurred to me to sell it. But now that the offer was made, I said, “Five bucks.”
“Do you have it on you?”
“It’s at home.”
“Bring it to school tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have the money.”
The exchange was made the next day in the boy’s restroom. He gave me a wrinkled 5 dollar bill and I handed him a small aspirin tin housing the pieces of the forbidden pill.
“How much should I use?” he wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never used any of it.”
“How do you know it’s any good?”
“I don’t.”
He shoved the aspirin tin into his pocket and a strange look appeared on his face. I supposed he was thinking about who he could use it on. I asked him if he had anyone in mind.
“I’m going to have to think about it,” he said, and then he slunk out the door.
A week or so went by and I hadn’t seen him around. Though we knew each other, we didn’t hang out. After a few days I just sort of forgot about him and his quest to find a suitable female.
When I finally saw him again, I asked if he had used the pill on anyone. Looking about to make sure no one was within hearing distance, he said, “I tried it but it didn’t work.”
“Who was it?”
“My sister.”
I knew his sister. She was a year older than he was and looked like a female guard in a woman’s prison. She had short, dry brown hair and was big-boned. Not fat, just solid, like a woman wrestler. And she wore glasses. She wasn’t exactly ugly, but she wasn’t pretty either. I didn’t bother to ask why he had chosen her because it was obvious to me. She had been convenient.
He said he gave her the mashed-up pill in a glass of lemonade and waited for it to take effect. He had made sure his parents would be gone for the day and that his sister would be home. After watching her drink the lemonade, he hung around waiting for her to come running into the room anxious to tear his clothes off. But nothing of the sort happened. She just went about her business and pretty much ignored him.
After a few hours, he gave up on it and chalked it up as a dud.
I was a little relieved that it had tuned out this way, but couldn’t help thinking about what might have happened if the pill had worked as we had imagined it, with his sister ripping off her clothes and begging him to jump her bones.
After we left high school I lost touch with Syd. It was maybe half a dozen years later that I ran into him on Broadway in downtown L.A. I had gone there to do some shopping. When I say that I ran into him I mean to say that I saw him in the crowd but didn’t talk to him or acknowledge him in any other way. Though I saw him, I wasn’t sure if he saw me.
He was still taller than the average pedestrian and he stood out in the crowd. Especially the way he was dressed. This was when Midnight Cowboy was showing on movie screens all over the country. Syd was almost the spitting image of Jon Voight in his western hat and buckskin jacket, tassels and all. I say almost because other than the clothes, he did not look anything like Voight. He did however look very much at home in his western garb. There was a hint of a self-satisfied smile on his boyish face. He never looked directly at me. He just stood towering over the sea of people, his cowboy hat gliding over them like a low-flying bird as I watched him walk away and I could almost hear these words following him down the crowded street—
Everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
Only the echoes of my mind…
For the time being, I thought, he had found his calling.